“Like what?”
“High romance. Porphyro says negligently, ‘For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.’ But lovers of to-day have to think of rent and food and clothes. And hotel bills for the honeymoon.”
“Oh, you women”—he sat up flaming—“are you conspiring to spoil my poem? Jane, it is the dreams of men and women which shape their lives.”
As his eyes met hers something stirred within her like the flutter of a bird’s wings lifted to the sun....
It was after five when Baldy telephoned triumphantly: “Jane, Edith Towne has agreed to go home to-night. And I’m to take her. I called up Mr. Towne and told him and he wants you to be there when we come. He’ll send Briggs for you and we are all to have dinner together.”
“But, Baldy, I don’t know Edith Towne. Why doesn’t he ask some of her own friends?”
“She doesn’t want ’em. Hates them all, and anyhow he has asked you. Why worry?”
“I’ll have to go home and dress.”
“Well, you’re to let him know at once where Briggs can get you. I told him you were at the Follettes’.”
Jane went back and repeated the conversation to Evans and his mother. Mrs. Follette was much interested. The Townes were most important people. “How nice for you, Jane.”